


his face in the rearview mirror

by starscry (orphan_account)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mechanics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fast Cars, Illegal Street Racing, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:31:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5549243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/starscry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The car breaks down a week and a half into his trip.</p><p>[ on hiatus ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> my hands wrapped around the stick shift, swerving on the 405,  
> I can never keep my eyes off this
> 
> my neck, the feeling of your soft lips illuminated in the light,  
> bouncing off the exit signs I missed
> 
> \-- [drive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2oI-BsWbIg4), halsey

The car breaks down a week and a half into his trip. It starts to whine when he crosses the border into New Mexico, manages to drag through Portales and a backroads highway across the Pecos River before finally succumbing to fate’s cruel hand. He pulls to the side of the road after the vehicle has finally sputtered out, pops the hood and wrinkles his nose at the smell of the smoldering engine. Smoke curls into the air, a stark gray against the cloudless midday desert sky.

He checks his phone and curses; in place of the normal cell bars are two words that spell the death sentence of “No Service.” Obi-Wan considers the courses of action he can take - push the car until he finds someone who will help, or wait until someone drives by. The heat beating down from the sun feels tangible, well above the hundred degree mark. He chooses the latter option.

Sweat is beading his forehead by the time a sixteen-wheeler drives by. He stands up on the top of the car, waves his arms and calls at it, but it continues down the road. He loosens his tie, thumbs open his suit jacket and pops the top few buttons on his waistcoat. Several hours pass. Sweat has matted his hair and beard and is dripping slow down his neck, disappearing under his shirt, by the time the second car drives by. He repeats the same motions as the first time and receives the same results. 

Obi-Wan pushes. He pushes and pushes for what feels like a lifetime, guiding the car manually down the road until the hot New Mexico sun finally overwhelms him. He gives up, takes his bags from the trunk, locks the car, and walks.

Two miles down the road from a dusty white sign that reads _Welcome to Tehuacán, New Mexico! (pop. 330)_ in obnoxiously blue font, Obi-Wan finally stumbles across a small house connected to a larger garage. He approaches the garage with a heavy sigh of relief, and dirt wafts into the air as he walks along the dusty road. A lizard scuttles into the shade provided by a small gathering of rocks. Even the animals know better than to be out in this heat, Obi-Wan thinks.

The garage looks like something that was built several decades ago and hasn’t seen any refurbishments since. It’s large enough - three cars are parked inside, along with a few motorcycles. Shelves and counters and red Craftsman tool carts line the walls. There are engine coolant and Pennzoil bottles scattered about; it’s a well-loved garage, managed by a loving mechanic, that much Obi-Wan can tell. He hears Steven Tyler’s voice coming from an old 80s cassette-corder that sits on a stool, crooning the lyrics to Aerosmith’s “Pink” - _and I think everything is going to be all right_. In his head, Obi-Wan wonders if everything _will_ be all right.

“Hello?” he asks. The word feels hot and heavy in his dry mouth, like cotton. He sets on the ground beside him the two duffel bags of belongings he’d taken from his car. “Is anyone here?”

An answer comes in the form of wheels rolling on concrete. Someone laying on a creeper pushes himself out from under one of the cars, and the sound is accompanied by a grunt and the scuff of boots walking through the garage. Obi-Wan is suddenly face-to-face with another man who looks the part of a mechanic - the white tanktop he wears is soaked with sweat, hugging his body tightly and riding up to reveal a strip of taut, well-tanned stomach. His jumpsuit is unzipped and bunched around his waist, and he holds a torque wrench in one hand, tapping the head against the flat palm of his other. He looks at Obi-Wan with eyes as blue as the desert sun outside and a face smudged with engine grease.

The tie that hangs low around Obi-Wan’s neck feels like a tightening noose, his partially-unbuttoned threepiece suit a heated vise grip on his body. He’s suddenly all too aware of the hundred-forty-dollar Ray Bans pushed above his forehead as he looks at this man in his rundown garage.

“Guess I’m ‘anyone,’” he says, and the scar on his eye that slices from forehead to mid-cheek raises as his eyebrow does. Obi-Wan feels hot under his gaze, knowing he’s being judged. “What do you need?”

“My car broke down. It’s a few miles away; I walked as far as I could. Would you mind taking a look at it?”

A smile flashed his way, like this mechanic was happy to simply have some new work. “Of course. Let me get my tow.”

They sit in an odd silence for several minutes in the old tow truck before Obi-Wan decides to break it. “I’m Obi-Wan,” he says, and the other man snorts. 

“Weird mom?” comes the reply. “Was she a hippie? I’ve heard some stories about hippie names.”

Obi-Wan can’t help but let out a soft bit of laughter. “Perhaps. I never knew my mother.” He leaves it at that.

The other man nods. “If it’s any consolation, I’m Anakin. Anakin Skywalker,” he says. “I used to make people call me ‘Ani.’ Thought it would somehow be more normal. Doesn’t matter now, though.”

“I go by Ben at work,” Obi-Wan replies. “If you’d prefer, you can call me that.”

Anakin’s lips purse. “No,” he says after a moment. “Obi-Wan is better. It suits you more, somehow.”

When they get to Obi-Wan’s car, Anakin hitches it to the tow truck and drives it slowly back to his garage. Obi-Wan is reluctant to leave the cool, air-conditioned inside of the truck. 

Anakin pulls his hair back into a short ponytail behind his head and pops the hood and slides his gloves on. He sticks his hands around the engine, looking for issues, and emerges several minutes later.

“Keys?” he asks, and Obi-Wan tosses them to him. They land in Anakin’s palm with a soft clink. Anakin gets into the Beamer and puts the keys in the ignition. The engine turns once. Twice. Obi-Wan feels a moment of hope, but it sputters out on the third turn and Anakin’s subsequent tries to make it run again are met with the futile sound of clicking.

Obi-Wan can still feel the heat radiating off the BMW. Sitting out in the hot sun all day hasn’t done it any good, and Anakin prods around with several different tools before confirming that fact. 

“Your engine is shot and there’s a broken hose that’s leaking coolant everywhere.” Anakin reaches an arm up, carding his fingers through the brown hair that hangs around his face to push it back. He breathes out in a sigh. Obi-Wan can hear his fingers tap against the front of the car. “It’ll take me a few days to fix. Beamers are foreign so I don’t have the parts here with me, but I probably have enough here to fix it from scratch.”

 _From scratch?_ Obi-Wan thinks, impressed. Most average mechanics out in the middle of nowhere would’ve told him he was shit out of luck and to be on his way. 

“Are there any.. hotels or anything out here that I can stay in while you fix it?” Obi-Wan asks. Anakin shrugs. 

“The main town of Tehuacán is about thirty miles down the road. There’s a Motel 6 there. I can give you a lift, if you want, or you can stay with me.” He nods his head in the direction of the little house connected to the garage. “My mom used to live here, but she’s gone now. I have an empty guest room.”

Obi-Wan considers the man in front of him, willing to take a stranger into his home. The offer is enticing; moreso than a shitty hotel bed and shower after a particularly shitty day. “All right,” Obi-Wan says, and Anakin grins at him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I came out to the desert  
> to find what I lost in your eyes  
> I filled my lungs with the sunset  
> and walked out into the night 
> 
> \-- [to the desert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uzccvWnlHZc), branches

The first thing Obi-Wan notices when he enters Anakin’s home is the cat on the table. It lays there and surveys him with curious blue eyes, tail tapping up-down-up-down as if it’s deciding what to make of him. He stares back at it. It makes a series of meows and purrs at him that seem to Obi-Wan more like chirps than feline noises.

Anakin steps in behind him a few moments later, kicking his boots by the screen door and scratching the cat on the head as he walks by the table to stand next to Obi-Wan. “This is Artoo,” he says, and the cat presses its head into Anakin’s large palm. Its eyes are still trained on Obi-Wan. Anakin continues, thumb swiping Artoo’s cheek, “and this is my house. Make yourself at home.”  
“Artoo?” Obi-Wan asks, curious about the name. Anakin laughs and ducks his head, a hand scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“An old friend gave him to me. She named him.”

“Ah,” he nods. “Hello, Artoo.” 

_Mrow,_ Artoo replies.

Anakin gives him the grand tour of the house, which isn’t much. Obi-Wan surveys it as the other man points out various rooms. The living room consists of a battered old couch that has no doubt seen better days, faded floral pattern illuminated by the rays of the sun’s last light of the day streaming through the window. It has a distinct sag in the middle cushion and some of the color has been rubbed off. Obi-Wan can picture Anakin sitting there, unwinding after a day’s work. In front of it on a small table is an old television set; so used to being surrounded by updated flatscreens, it catches Obi-Wan off-guard to see something with genuine antennae still sticking off it. 

“It only gets cable,” Anakin says about the television, “and the color’s not great. But it was my mom’s.”

Obi-Wan is beginning to get the impression that most of the shoddy old things lying about the house belonged to Anakin’s mother, and that the other man didn’t have the heart to replace them.

For the most part, the house is relatively clean. The kitchen table, rather than being set with plates or anything else relatively normal, is stacked high with different machine parts. RC racing cars, some taken apart and some in the process of being put back together, something that looks like a junky old Roomba, and various other things that Anakin seems to be tinkering with. 

There’s a bookshelf with a sheen of dust covering everything on it, stacked with books that range from _The Grapes of Wrath_ to home cooking books to car magazines and manuals. Picture frames line every small table that Obi-Wan can see, filled with smiling photos of a young Anakin and a woman that must be his mother. 

It’s a house of preserved memories. A time long past, that Anakin wants to hold onto.

Obi-Wan can empathize.

Anakin shoulders his duffel bags and leads Obi-Wan into a room directly across from his own. It’s got an old bed with a tan duvet that creaks when he sits on it, a small nightstand and a dresser and closet. It’s bare, scrubbed clean of all traces of whomever it used to belong, converted instead into a neat guest room.

“I don’t get many guests,” Anakin says, setting his things down. “Almost none, to be honest.” 

He flashes Obi-Wan a smile. It’s tentative, the smile of someone happy to not be lonely for once. “It might be nice to have someone else here for a bit.”

The sun has set by the time Obi-Wan is all settled in to his temporary home for the next few days. Anakin manages to make a decent meal out of his bare-bones pantry that consists of mostly Hamburger Helper and beer, despite Obi-Wan’s offers to cook (“Let me do it, Anakin. I feel bad, imposing on you like this.” “You’re my guest. Besides, I like cooking for more than one.”). Obi-Wan smiles to himself, somehow feeling comfortable in the house, sitting at the table, watching Anakin stir a frying pan with one hand and wave the other around as he talks animatedly, grin dancing on his lips. 

“So,” Anakin says, uncapping a beer bottle on the edge of the table and handing it to Obi-Wan along with a plate of food, “how’d you even end up out here? I mean, a guy in a suit with a fancy foreign car out in the ass-end of nowhere. That’s weird.”

Obi-Wan knows it is. “I had a bit of vacation time to use up and decided to drive Route 66. I started in Chicago and when I crossed the Texan border I deviated from the main road because I have some.. work to attend to down in Las Cruces. I suppose it wasn’t the smartest idea; I could have stayed on the route until I arrived in Albuquerque and gone south from there, but I’ve been told that New Mexico has a particularly beautiful desert. I wanted to take a bit of extra time to enjoy it.”

He sighs, taking a long draw from his beer. “What a wonderful decision that was,” he mutters, annoyance lacing his tone. Anakin laughs.

“I guess if you want to really experience New Mexico’s desert, you managed to break down in the right place. Nothing but desert around here. Sand and cactuses and snakes and more fucking sand.”

“You don’t like the desert, I take it?” Obi-Wan asks, amused. Anakin snorts, rolls his eyes.

“God, I wish I could get out of here. Leave for a big city or somewhere it actually rains,” he says. His voice is bitter. Brows knit, shoulders hunched. “I’ll be stuck here until the day I die. And then they’ll bury me six feet under the goddamn sand.”

Anakin chugs half of his beer. Obi-Wan mimics the gesture.

“Do you work in the States?” the other man asks, setting his beer down with a clink on the table and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Obi-Wan shrugs. “Sometimes. I work for an agency doing multinational negotiations.”

“So you’re a spy or something?” Anakin asks. 

“Or something.”

“I used to want to be a spy when I was a little kid. My mom would put on Bond movies, and she and I would use old beer cans as walkie-talkies and pretend we were infiltrating some base in Russia. But,” he continues, shoulder raised in a defeated half-shrug, “now I fix cars for a living.”

They finish the rest of dinner with small talk. Anakin grudgingly lets Obi-Wan cleans up, much to the amusement of the older man.

“C’mon. I want to show you something. You can _really_ experience the desert.” Anakin’s smiling. Wide, bright. He tugs at Obi-Wan’s sleeve, hand wrapping around his wrist. Obi-Wan leans into the feeling of the other man’s large, warm palm against his skin, and lets Anakin lead him outside. 

There’s a ladder leaned against the back of the house that leads up to the top of the flat roof. It looks like a place Anakin visits often. There’s a big blanket spread on the ground with a stack of books next to it, a camping lantern, and an old record player with a bin of well-used vinyl LPs next to it. It doesn’t rain much in the desert, Anakin explains, so he just leaves everything out. It’s a nice little rooftop sanctuary the other man has created, Obi-Wan thinks.

Anakin turns the lantern on and lets a Fleetwood Mac album spin. He lies down on the blanket, arms crossed behind his head. Obi-Wan lies down next to him.

The sight is beautiful. He can see every star, shining bright in the sky. The Milky Way curves above them like the night sky’s own star-studded smile. The desert is painted hues of purple and blue, a soft sheen of moonlight covering everything and it’s so breathtaking that Obi-Wan almost never wants to leave. Wants to freeze this moment in time.

He sneaks a glance at the man lying beside him. Anakin has one hand reached toward the night sky, and he looks at the stars that span above him through splayed fingers. Slowly, he curls his hand into a fist; it looks almost like he’s trying to grab the galaxies in the sky. Keep them for himself. Obi-Wan wonders if he does this often, just lies on the rooftop and looks up into the night and wishes he could be looking at the same sky from somewhere, anywhere else.

Anakin points out the constellations to him. Obi-Wan watches his finger trace the stars. They lie there well into the night, Obi-Wan telling Anakin stories of countries he’s been to, Anakin telling him about life growing up in a desert garage in New Mexico. 

They both fall asleep curled up next to each other, listening to the sound of Stevie Nicks humming softly from the vinyl and coyotes howling in the distance.

\- - -

He wakes up on the roof to the smell of fresh coffee and Anakin’s hair illuminated like a halo by the first rays of the morning sun rising over the mountains in the distance.

“Hey. Sorry to wake you up so early, but I’m going to go start working on your car now,” Anakin says. He holds out a mug to Obi-Wan. “I brought you coffee. And I left some towels out by the shower for you. There’s breakfast on the stove.”

Obi-Wan smiles at Anakin’s thoughtfulness. He takes the cup and puts it to his lips, tentatively sipping. It tastes like dollar-store, bottom of the pot Folger’s sludge. It occurs to Obi-Wan that he may be a bit too used to his freshly-ground beans and french press. So he takes another sip and nods at the boy who probably grew up too poor to afford anything nicer than this type of coffee. “It’s good,” he says. “Thank you.”

Anakin’s already wearing his faded blue mechanic jumpsuit, ready to face the day. “I’ll be in the garage. If you need anything, just come out and get me.” Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “the cell service out here is pretty shit. The landline works, though, if you need to call your boss or something.”

Obi-Wan dips his head. Anakin gives him a soft smile and climbs down the roof’s ladder, feet kicking up dust as he walks to the garage.  
The shower is warm, welcoming. He washes yesterday’s troubles from his skin and dries himself with one of the soft towels Anakin’s left out, pressing his face into it; the towel smells like the other man. Obi-Wan wonders why this thought is comforting to him, rather than invasive, strange. But, then, things seem to be strange out in the desert.

Freshened up, he decides to ghost over Anakin out in the garage, for lack of anything better to do. He hasn’t brought many clothes with him that aren’t upscale, so he settles on a ratty old sleep tee with a Guns ‘n Roses logo on it that he got at a concert some time or another during his younger years. 

The garage is the same as it was when he first found it the day before; the cassette-corder is playing some song by a band he doesn’t realize. Artoo lazily stalks a lizard in the dust, tail swishing from side-to-side. Anakin has his hair pulled back and gloves on, hands deep in the engine of Obi-Wan’s car.

“Hey,” Obi-Wan says, startling the younger man out of his reverie. Anakin looks up, sweat beaded on his forehead. 

“What’s up, old man?” he replies, grin curving the edges of his lips. Obi-Wan rolls his eyes at the nickname, but his mouth presses into a thin smile of its own. He can’t help it.

Obi-Wan seats himself on a stool near the BMW, combing fingers through his beard. “I thought I would watch. Learn a few things about cars, maybe.”

Anakin shrugs. “It’s not very interesting. I’m fixing the radiator hose right now.” He holds up a big, black tube. “Your old one had a leak in it, which made your car overheat. The engine coolant couldn’t get to the radiator to regulate the temperature.”

“That definitely does not sound ideal for where we are,” Obi-Wan remarks dryly.

“Definitely not,” comes the laughing reply. Anakin pops the old hose from the car and drops it on the ground. “Here, let me show you. This is pretty easy to fix on your own if it ever happens again.”

Obi-Wan steps behind him, peering over Anakin’s shoulder. Anakin turns around and presses the radiator hose into his hands, taking the older man’s wrists and guiding them to the inside of the car, around the engine. “Right here,” he says, and his breath tickles the hair at the back of Obi-Wan’s neck. He stifles a shiver. He curls Obi-Wan’s fingers around the hose and slide the end of it over the stubout from the radiator, tightening the clamps around the new one. 

“See?” Anakin says, stepping back after the new piece is all set in the car. “That was easy.”

“And this is supposed to take you a few days?” Obi-Wan asks, amused. Anakin rolls his eyes. “Radiator hoses take ten minutes. Trying to make new engine parts for a German car with German parts is what will take me several days.”

The younger man rakes a hand through his hair, other one pressed against his hip. “I’ll try to work fast, though. I know you said you have some job to do in Las Cruces.”

Obi-Wan waves his hand dismissively. “It’s not that important. Take whatever time you need.” A pause. “I quite enjoy being here, in all actuality.”

Anakin smiles at that. Genuine. Bright.

\- - -

They pass the rest of the day sweating in the garage. Anakin’s small box fan is nearly no use in the above-hundred degree weather. He strips his shirt off around midday, the sun turning the garage into a hotbox. Obi-Wan does his best not to stare, but his eyes keep drifting back to the younger man’s back, muscles flexing as he leans over the car.

Idle chat passes the time. Obi-Wan quickly discovers several things: Anakin is smart, extremely snarky, and someone he can easily match wits with. He discovers more about cars than he’d ever previously known. And he discovers that Anakin Skywalker deserves more than he’s been given - deserves more than a shitty life in a shitty small town, a victim of the cycle of borderline poverty. His life is his garage. His tiny house. The memories he holds on to.

“Is there no way you can leave here?” Obi-Wan asks at one point, a frown tugging at his lips. “Take a Greyhound to some city, perhaps, with whatever money you have in savings?”

“I wish,” Anakin replies bitterly. “But life isn’t a movie.”

Obi-Wan stays away from the topic after that.

\- - -

Anakin has made good progress on the engine by the time he decides to close up shop for the day. The sun is starting to dip down, staining the sky a beautiful range of oranges and golds that look like something straight out of a watercolor.

He’s pulling the garage door down when an old Ford pickup veers off the main road. Dirt whirls up into the air as it drives up to them. Obi-Wan can see Anakin tense up, panic crossing his face. The younger man darts into the back of the garage to grab something. Anakin presses it into Obi-Wan’s palm; it’s an old pistol, and the cool, smooth metal is not an unfamiliar sensation in his hand. It’s something he didn’t realize Anakin would be familiar with, however. 

“In case,” Anakin whispers, curling Obi-Wan’s fingers over the grip. “In case things go bad.”

Obi-Wan nods, confused. He steps to the back of the garage, watching the scene play out from a decent vantage point.

“Watto,” Anakin says, nodding his head toward the man getting out of the pickup’s passenger side. Obi-Wan gives Watto a once-over. He’s a fat, ugly man, flanked by two scrawnier lackeys. Both of them have guns of their own. 

“Skywalker,” Watto replies, in a heavily accented voice almost as ugly as his appearance. “Where is my money?”

“I-” Anakin starts, and he grits his teeth. “I don’t have it yet. I’m sorry.”

Watto flicks a finger, and one of his lackeys smooths a hand over the muzzle of his gun, withdraws it menacingly from its holster. Obi-Wan’s own hand presses tightly around the gun he’s been given, ready to draw it if the moment turns sour.

“Very hard to pay off your mother’s debts when there is no money to do so,” Watto says. “What is the problem?”

“I haven’t had much work lately. No work, no money.”

“Yes, yes. But we both know you have.. other ways of getting money.”

Anakin nods, gaze steel. “I’ll have it for you. I _promise_. Give me two days and I’ll have it.”

Watto considers this, two thick fingers rubbing his chin in thought. “Hmm,” he murmurs. “Not sure I like sound of this. Better you give me your special car.” He snaps, and the barrel of a gun is pointed at Anakin’s thigh.

Obi-Wan steps out of his hiding place, and darts between Anakin and the gun. He points the pistol directly between Watto’s eyes. “He said he would get the money for you,” Obi-Wan grits out. “Leave the boy be.”

Watto grunts with laughter, waving a hand for his lackey to put his gun down. “I did not realize you have a protector now, Skywalker,” he says. He studies Obi-Wan carefully. “Very well. Two days, no more. If you don’t have money in two days, it’ll be your leg or your car.”

They leave unceremoniously, pickup driving off into the distance in the direction of the main town. Obi-Wan has more questions than answers. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, and turns to see Anakin’s eyes on him, a mixture of emotions pooled in his blue eyes.

Anakin slides his arms around Obi-Wan. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “They seriously don’t fuck around. Would’ve shot me.”

“It would be quite hard for you to fix my car on one leg,” Obi-Wan replies. The younger man bursts out in laughter, breath hot against Obi-Wan’s neck. 

“Thank god they didn’t shoot me, then. You know how to handle a gun well, don’t you?” Anakin says. Obi-Wan nods. 

“I suppose you could say that, yes.”

“Spy or something, huh?”

“Or something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of the things i'm trying to do with this fic is translate anakin's life growing up on tatooine into something a bit more modern/today. hopefully it comes across decently, and i'm really (really) looking forward to writing next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving you a night call to tell you how I feel  
> I want to drive you through the night, down the hills  
> I'm gonna tell you something you don't want to hear  
> I'm gonna show you where it's dark, but have no fear
> 
> \-- [nightcall, kavinsky](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HjkLXk_liBM)

There’s an angry voice on the other end of the line that Obi-Wan isn’t sure he’s ready to face just yet.

“Kenobi,” says Mace Windu, loud and stern and everything Obi-Wan doesn’t want to deal with right now, “we expected you in Las Cruces three days ago. Where are you.” 

It’s not a question - that much he knows from his time spent working under Mace. It’s a demand. A demand to know why Obi-Wan has suddenly dropped off the map, and why he’s _just now_ calling. 

“I had some car troubles and broke down several hours away from Las Cruces. It should be fixed within the next few days,” he replies.

Mace’s anger bubbles over, like lava spilling down the side of a volcano. “The next few _days_?” he growls, and Obi-Wan can picture his knit brows and exasperated face in his mind’s eye. “Kenobi, we needed you there _three days ago_. You don’t have ‘the next few days’ to get there. Why didn’t you just get on a train?”

“The nearest train station is seventy miles away.”

“Christ,” Mace hisses under his breath. “Fine. We’ll send an agency car to pick you up, then. Where the hell are you, anyway?”

“Tehuacán, New Mexico. Near it, anyway. And with all due respect, Mace, could you not just have someone else pick up the job for me if you need it done so urgently? As it is, I _am_ still on vacation time, and have plenty left of it. Loathe as I am to suggest him, I know that Quinlan is out on mission in Arizona. Why not send him?”

There’s a sigh on the other end of the line, and the scratch of pen on paper. “Fine,” Mace says after a few moments. “But, Kenobi - I’m not happy about this. You had better be in Los Angeles by next week, or there will be consequences.” 

“Of course. I will see you then, Mace.”

“Take care of yourself, Obi-Wan.”

The landline cuts off and he’s left with static. Obi-Wan puts the phone back on on the hook and cards a hand through his hair, glad he’s gotten the conversation out of the way. Mace Windu is not a happy man when his orders aren’t followed, but this is something Obi-Wan can’t help; he isn’t about to leave an expensive car out in the middle of nowhere. He also doesn’t feel like leaving Anakin just yet. Something about the younger man feels magnetic to him.

Anakin, as if on cue, swings open the screen door and walks into the house with Artoo under one arm. With a tool belt slung low on his hips and a sheen of sweat on his forehead, Obi-Wan knows he’s been hard at work out in the garage. He deposits the cat on a countertop next to a filled bowl of food and unbuckles the belt, dropping it unceremoniously onto the couch. Hands on hips, he turns to face Obi-Wan.

“I’m going into town to pick up a few things,” he says. Anakin lifts up the hem of his shirt to wipe his forehead with it, exposing an expanse of dark, taut stomach and broad chest. Obi-Wan stares. And averts his eyes. And then slowly, allows them to creep back for one last peek. He misses something Anakin says, and the younger man looks at him with a quirked eyebrow and a sly, knowing grin. Obi-Wan flushes.

“Do you want to come with?” Anakin repeats. Obi-Wan quickly nods, tugging on his clothing to straighten it out. He smoothes a hand over his beard. Tries to look like he’s in control of himself and not about to get hard in his jeans. 

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says, clearing his throat and looking anywhere but at _him_. “Yes, that would be good. I have some things I should probably purchase at the store.”

“All right,” Anakin says. His voice is tinged with laughter. Keys jingle in his hand when he picks them up from their place in a dish on the table and grabs an old, battered leather wallet that looks like it’s seen better and fuller days. “We’ll take the pickup.”

After three days with Anakin, Obi-Wan has fallen into his everyday routine; the younger man wakes up early to run, starts his work just after dawn breaks, and works on cars until late in the day. Obi-Wan has been content with sitting on a counter in the garage, watching him, entertaining Artoo, or reading from the plethora of mechanic magazines Anakin has, stacked in one big heap. In the evenings, they eat and talk, listen to Anakin’s surprisingly large collection of eighties cassettes and vinyls, or watch movies on VCR until one (usually Anakin) or both fall asleep. It’s interesting and relaxing, and a peaceful routine. An unexpected detour on his small vacation. One he likes nonetheless.

\- - -

Though Tehuacán is a small town, it’s bustling in its own right. For an area that boasts less than four hundred people, Obi-Wan supposes having most of them crowded in one central area is what makes for the odd appearance of more going on than there really is. It is, oddly, _not_ the one stoplight town he was expecting.

All of the buildings are gathered along one main road - a nonchain gas station dubbed “Ramona’s Gas ‘N Go” that also sports a sign boasting _the quickest oil change this side of the Pecos River!_ (which Obi-Wan highly doubts, considering he’s certain he is sitting next to the best mechanic in eastern New Mexico), a Motel 6, a tiny and shabby grocery store, and a few odd shops selling odd things.

Anakin pulls up in front of the grocery store and parks the pickup there. The lot is surprisingly full. There is a gathering of low-rider trucks and old sportscars that look like they’ve been upgraded; spoilers arch off their backs and racing stripes lick their hoods. A group of men sit on the hoods of the cars, talking low in a rapid mix of languages. They have a strange presence - an air of swagger about them, Obi-Wan notes. As if they own this place and _know_ it. 

He walks side-by-side with Anakin up to the storefront. A short, well-built man sitting on the hood of a bright orange Mastretta that looks more expensive than everything in this town combined snaps at Anakin, clicking the back of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. A cigarette dangles from his fingers. “Ay,” he shouts, “ _vato._ ” 

Anakin turns to him. Obi-Wan can tell by the way his arms cross over his chest, fingers tightening around his biceps and a nettled look pricking at his face, that the younger man has some sort of issue with this group. Anakin raises a brow expectantly, grates out a semi-cordial, “What, Sebulba?” 

“You comin’ tonight, Skywalker?” Sebulba asks. A sly grin tugs the edges of his lips up. “Buy-in is two hundred. Pot’s already almost six grand. You ‘n your garage could use the cash, _pero_ me and the boys don’t think _su carro de mierda_ will pull through.”

The men on the other cars laugh at the statement. They mutter amongst themselves, ridiculing Anakin in flashed glances and sharp chuckles. Sebulba drums his fingers on the Mastretta’s hood heavily. “¿ _Qué piensas_ , Skywalker?”

“I’ll be there,” Anakin growls back, lines of anger beginning to crease his forehead. Obi-Wan ghosts his hand over the small of the younger man’s back, fingers light, attempting to calm him before his anger gets the best of him. He relaxes into the touch, letting a heavy breath slip between his lips. “I’ll be there with the money. And you’ll be kissing my ass after the race is done and I walk away six thousand richer.”

Sebulba spits on the ground in disdain. “We’ll see if you can put your engine where your big mouth is, _vato_.” He flicks his dying cigarette at Anakin with surprisingly good aim and turns back to his group. It bounces on the asphalt just next to the younger man’s boot; Anakin toes it out, eyes shooting daggers at Sebulba’s back.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs, hand still pressed against the young mechanic’s back. “Ignore them. Let’s continue.”

Anakin nods. “Yeah,” he replies, “Let’s go.”

The grocery store isn’t as big as the ones Obi-Wan is used to shopping in, but it’s homey. When he sees Anakin pulling more Hamburger Helper and frozen TV dinners off the shelves than should be humanely _allowed_ , Obi-Wan decides to take matters into his own hands. He scours the store on his own, filling up a basket with actual, _real_ food; things he’s seen Anakin’s home lacking, like basic spices for cooking, ingredients for breakfasts and lunches and dinners that aren’t bare-bones, a few bottles of wine that he knows are well out of the younger man’s price range. It’s not as if Obi-Wan doesn’t have the money to spare, and filling up Anakin’s pantry with a bit of food and other things to last him a little while is the least he can do in return for the hospitality he’s been given. If he goes a bit overboard buying things, Obi-Wan thinks, it’s just more that Anakin gains.

Anakin is genuinely surprised at checkout and presses Obi-Wan about the large amounts of food he’s buying, but Obi-Wan simply gives him a sly, tight-lipped smile, and says, “you’ll see.”

They stop for lunch at a dingy little roadside diner. The neon sign hanging above the entryway buzzes as the letters flicker in and out of life. _Three Coyotes Cantina_ , it reads, and Obi-Wan amusedly notes the squat little coyotes that sit next to the words on the sign. They look more like ugly opossums than anything canine. The inside is just as bleak as its outside, the walls whitewashed with painted-on sand and cacti the only things gracing them aside from the odd framed photo. Anakin talks animatedly with their waitress, an old, dark woman with a wizened face and gray hair pulled back in a tight bun. He barely glances at the menu, ordering something in rapid-fire Spanish. Obi-Wan gives a simple shrug, says, “I’ll take a Corona and whatever he’s having.”

“So,” Obi-Wan starts. “What is this about tonight that I heard earlier?”

“A race,” Anakin replies. His eyes brighten. Excited. “It’s one of the biggest drag races in New Mexico. Nearly thirty cars, every year. The pot is _huge_ ; it’s enough to pay off Watto for now. Plus, I can probably afford some new gear for the garage. Maybe fix it up a bit.”

“Drag race?” Obi-Wan asks. He’s vaguely aware of the term. 

“Street racing, really. There’s a strip on the outskirts of town. Everyone brings their cars, and we race two at a time. Bracket style. The winner takes the pot.”

“That sounds dangerous, Anakin.”

He receives a shrug in reply. “It is. But I don’t have many other options to get the money, at this point. Plus,” Anakin adds, voice dropping to an excited whisper, “I’ve been working on my car for years. I didn’t win last year, but I _know_ with the turbo I made, she’ll be the fastest thing in the southwest. I’ll beat them all this year.”

“Are you sure about this?”

Anakin nods. “I want you to come,” he says. “Be my good luck charm.”

“I - suppose I can,” Obi-Wan replies. He’s unsure, but Anakin seems to be raring and ready for this race, and for the chance to escape at least one demon of the past that has been nipping at his heels. 

“Good,” Anakin says, with an air of finality. He puts his elbows up on the table and fidgets idly with a strand of long, waved hair. “Also, I should have your car all fixed within a day and a half. Give or take a bit. I’m going to fit her with some new tires, too, because yours are worn down. And it’s still a long way to go for you, to Las Cruces and then all the way out to Los Angeles.”

Obi-Wan feels his stomach sink at the time frame. Only a day and a half. It seems so unusually short to him. “I have managed to.. bypass going to Las Cruces, actually,” he says. 

Anakin’s brow raises. “Bypass?”

“I convinced one of my superiors to have someone else complete the work I was meant to do there. It gave me a bit more time to spend here.”

“Aw,” Anakin replies, a grin light upon his lips. He puts a hand over his heart in mock affection. “You wanted to spend more time here with me?”

Obi-Wan feels his cheeks color. He wishes, not for the first time, that his skin weren’t so pale. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he murmurs jokingly in reply. “But, I _am_ enjoying it out here.”

Anakin’s grin softens into a smile. “Good,” he says, and Obi-Wan doesn’t realize that the younger man has reached a hand halfway across the table until he feels fingers soft on his skin. “I’m enjoying having you with me.” 

Anakin’s fingers linger there. Obi-Wan doesn’t move. 

Their food arrives, along with the beer. They continue talking and Obi-Wan feels himself loosening as he drinks the Corona. Liquid bravery in his veins, he lets his fingers tangle with Anakin’s own willing ones.

\- - - 

The night stretches above the strip of road-turned-racetrack, and Obi-Wan finds himself engulfed in a world of stars and automobiles.

Cars and a crowd line the asphalt. They bear a variety of plates - Texas, Arizona, even a few surprising ones from California here to race for the pot. Most are either New Mexico or have no plates, however. It’s a simple length of ordinary, underused backwater freeway about twenty miles from the town. Nothing around except for scrub brush, cacti, and the creatures of the desert night. Floodlights have been set up on the side of the road to illuminate the raceway. Obi-Wan can see deep black skidmarks on the road. It’s been used, heavily, for a while.

“Anakin,” he says, turning to the younger man to ask him a question that has been niggling the back of his mind since the race was explained to him. “Is this.. legal?”

Anakin shakes his head, dark hair bouncing with the motion. A smirk twists his lips. “Not legal at all. But, old man, that’s what makes it _fun_.”

Obi-Wan sighs and combs his fingers through his beard, exasperated. Of course it isn’t legal, he thinks. Undoubtedly, the drag race is also extremely dangerous. But the younger man is so excited for it, hand running the length of his car’s hood in anticipation. Anakin is a vision in leather; a black leather jacket hangs off his shoulders with a white Harley-Davidson logoed tank underneath, the sides cut all the way down to his hipbones. The hem hangs sloppily out at the bottom, barely tucked into pants that are slung low on his hips with a silver-buckled belt. When he turns just enough, Obi-Wan can see dark, tantalizing skin as the cut sides of the shirt wave lazily in the slight night breeze. Anakin’s dark racer’s pants are tucked into black combat boots, cinched up tight to his mid-calf. He looks every part the mechanic-by-day, drag-racer-by-night.

“You ready for this?” Anakin asks him, and Obi-Wan re-focuses himself to the present going-ons. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. 

“I’m not entirely sure that _this_ is that I should be ready for. I have never been in a.. car race.”

“It’ll be fun,” Anakin replies. “You’ll be sitting passenger-side in one of the finest cars - and I know that, because I built it. 1970 Ford Mustang. Found her in a junkyard when I was younger, and spent years rebuilding.” He rubs his hands together, excited.

The car is nice, and Obi-Wan has been around a lot of _nice_ cars. It’s a sleek, polished black with racing stripes painted down the hood. It doesn’t have as many gaudy outer addons like many of the other cars parked around the road do, none of their spoilers or fake vents or big wings or neon underbody lights. The car is simple. Classic.

A familiar orange Mastretta pulls up beside them, and Sebulba waves at them with a hand hanging out the driver’s side window. He slaps it on the outside of his car’s door. “Skywalker!” he calls, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Maybe you’ll make it past the third round this time, eh, _vato_?” 

“Save it for the streets, Sebulba,” Anakin spits back. “I’ll run your shit car into the ground this time.”

Sebulba laughs, a loud noise that draws attention from those nearby. “ _Ay dios mío_ , this boy he thinks he can win!” he exclaims. There’s an underlying taunt in his voice, daring Anakin to do something - fight him, make a statement back. Anything Anakin does will just embarrass him further and draw more attention.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan whispers, close to the younger man’s ear. “Let’s get ready for the race. Leave it be.”

Anakin is clearly bristling. He flips Sebulba the bird and tugs open the driver’s side door with an angry force, getting into the car. A competitive fire burns in his eyes. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes out. “God, fuck him.”

“How do you two know each other?” Obi-Wan asks, sliding into the passenger’s seat.

“I raced against him in the third round last year. I started to pull ahead, so he ran his car into mine and knocked me off the track at the last second. They didn’t rule it a violation since it was so close to the end and everyone claimed they didn’t see what really happened. But I fucking know what happened.”

Anakin let out a heavy breath. “I’m not taking that shit this year. I’ll beat him.”

Obi-Wan reaches over, puts a comforting hand on Anakin’s shoulder. His thumb rubs soft circles into the other man’s skin. “You’ll do fine,” he murmurs. Anakin covers the hand with his own, fingers clenching around Obi-Wan’s palm. 

“Yeah,” he replies. “I need to.”

 

The rules are explained by the race official as the cars are lined up in groups of two. There are five rounds with the last being the championship, the winner of each race progressing onto the next bracket. Losers forfeit their entry bids, and the single winner takes home the entire pot. A pricey game to play.

Anakin is up after the fourth pair finish their race; his opponent is a skinny man with several teeth missing, driving a glossy Pontiac Firebird. 

“ _Chingate_ ,” the driver of the Firebird spits at them as they pull up next to each other, grinning with a middle finger up and out his window. 

“Hey. _Vato_ ,” Anakin hisses back at him, lips raised like a snarling dog. “ _Besa mi culo._ ” He tightly grips the wheel at ten and two, steps on the accelerator and revs the engine. A declaration of war. White smoke billows up from his back wheels as he burns them out. 

The official stands between the cars, a hand on each of their hoods. There’s a single streetlight hung above them for the race, gleaming red in the darkness. 

When it turns green, both drivers floor it. Anakin’s car pulls ahead quickly, crossing the finishing line with a breezy victory as the Firebird lags in, driver spitting curses out his window.

“Well,” Obi-Wan says, still overcoming the sensation of driving _much_ faster than anyone should. “That was - that was easy.”

“Just wait,” Anakin replies. “It gets harder as we go on.”

They pulled to the side of the road and parked, sitting on the Mustang’s hood and watching the rest of the races progress until, finally, the official addresses the winners and tells them to line up once more according to the pairs he lists off. 

Sebulba is up first this time, his Mastretta racing against a gray Mitsubishi. The Mitsu’s engine backfires on it just as the cars take off, and Sebulba drives easily to the finish line. Obi-Wan can see him cackling in the side mirror, and grimaces; the man must have rigged the other car’s engine somehow. He glances at Anakin. If he does end up against Sebulba, the race may not bode well for him.

Anakin’s car is in the middle of the pack, and when he pulls up to the starting line, he’s facing off against a cherry red Camaro with windows tinted so dark that Obi-Wan can’t see the driver. There are no rude gestures, no words exchanged this time. The Camaro does a burnout for an obscenely long time, the white smoke coming from its tires engulfing the car. When the light turns green, it pierces the cloud, taking off at high speed. 

The Mustang pulls out just as fast and Anakin slams the gas to the floor, fingers clenched tight around the wheel. He pulls ahead at the last minute, crossing the finish and puffing out a tense breath. Obi-Wan gives him a good-natured pat. “Two down, three to go,” he says. Anakin nods.

Despite there being less competitors now, the races go by agonizingly slow. Anakin manages to come out ahead in his next two against an old Corvette and an expensive-looking Lexus that nearly sideswipes him. It’s near midnight and the crowd has, surprisingly, grown larger, those who have already lost staying behind to watch the two final competitors race against each other. The official calls out two names: “Sebulba and Skywalker, pull up to the line.”

The two cars line up beside each other. Their headlights slash through the night’s darkness. Burnout smoke drifts lazily through the bright beams. 

Sebulba rolls down his window. Slowly. A nasty grin smothers his face. “You ‘n me, Skywalker. Too bad you made it this far to lose.”

Anakin lazily flicks his wrist, middle finger held up. “Go back to fucking your sister, Sebulba.”

“Bite me,” the other man replies, revving his engine.

Obi-Wan looks at Anakin’s face in the rearview mirror. His eyes are kerosene burning bright with flames fueled by anger and competition and a _need_ to win. Anakin slides the passenger side window up, blocking out Sebulba and focusing on the race. His hand hovers on the gear shift. 

The light turns yellow.

Anakin’s right foot edges from the brake toward the gas, left still pressing down the clutch. Slowly, _slowly_. 

Green blazes overhead.

Anakin pops the clutch. 

Both cars burst across the line, engines snarling like wolves. 

The Mastretta pulls ahead quickly, tires turning at a blazingly fast speed. Anakin shifts to second and the Mustang catches up, evening out their paces. He steps on the gas as hard as possible. The scenery blazes by. All Obi-Wan knows in this moment is the man in the driver’s seat beside him and smell of gasoline and burnt rubber and everything is _fast, fast, fast, fast_.

Then, Sebulba’s car swerves to the left, lunging at Anakin. He’s fast, though, and manages to spin the wheel quickly and avoid the swipe. However, his dodge gives the Mastretta enough time to pull ahead by a hair.

The finish line inches closer, a white garrote for Anakin painted on the asphalt if he can’t regain his speed.

Anakin’s fingers clench on the leather of the wheel. The fire inside him _burns_ , and the engine _roars_ , and everything flies by in an instant. The cars are neck-and-neck again. Anakin yanks the wheel, the side of his car grating against the Mastretta’s side. Sebulba falters, front wheels spinning out of control as his car veers to the right. The road stretches out in front of them as the Mustang pulls coolly over the finish line.

The race is over.

Anakin whoops with joy and spins the wheel to head back to the crowd gathered to receive him as the winner, but the Mustang suddenly jerks and Obi-Wan can hear the screech of metal crashing into metal, the driver’s side t-boned by an extremely angry Sebulba. 

“That was _bullshit_!” the other man screams, flooring the gas and driving his car further into Anakin’s. “I should have won, _pendejo!_ ”

Anakin pulls his car away, pulling up side-to-side with the Mastretta. “As far as anyone is concerned, I won. And now this dent in my fucking car proves that you’re just a sore loser. Consider it payback for last year.”

“You’ll pay for this, you little fucker,” Sebulba hisses back. He pulls away angrily, driving past the gathered crowd and back in the direction of the town.

Obi-Wan lets out a sigh of relief. “Good job,” he murmurs to Anakin. The younger man smiles at him and turns the wheel, heading back to the race official.

They step out of the car and Anakin is swarmed with people, garnering a range of reactions from hearty congratulatory slaps on the back to curses spit in his face by people who had bet on his opponent. The official hands him a thick wad of cash, which Anakin quickly slips into the waistband of his pants for safekeeping. The crowd disperses quickly afterward, most hopping back into their cars and leaving the racing strip.

Obi-Wan is standing there, eyes fixed on Anakin as he talks to the last straggler. The younger man waves the person off and returns to Obi-Wan. His eyes are bright like the stars overhead. 

“You really were my good luck charm tonight,” he says, one hand slipping to rest on Obi-Wan’s waist. Anakin’s thumb presses into the skin there, and Obi-Wan leans into the touch. He lets his own hands slowly drift up Anakin’s body, slipping around his neck, touch feather-light. 

“I’m happy I could be of service,” Obi-Wan murmurs in reply, a smile gracing his features. Anakin’s eyes close and he lets out a soft laugh, fingers curling into the older man’s shirt and pulling him closer. Their bodies are flush against each other, Anakin’s hands on Obi-Wan’s hips, and Obi-Wan’s moving up to cup the younger man’s face.

They both lean in at the same time, lips pressing together. Anakin melts into him, a happy sigh escaping his lips. Obi-Wan lets his fingers _finally_ tangle in the dark hair he’s wanted to run his hands through since he met the younger man. He kisses Anakin fiercely, nipping at his lower lip. As he slides his tongue into the mouth against his own, he feels hands slipping across his hips to grip firmly at his ass. Obi-Wan lets out a moan, which Anakin greedily eats up with his own mouth. 

The break apart when neither has breath left, both panting. Anakin’s hair is tousled, his lips a swollen red. 

“God,” Anakin pants, his hands still on Obi-Wan’s waist with thumbs dipped below the band of his underwear. “You’re amazing, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan’s face heats up at the praise, and grabs Anakin’s chin, leans forward, and presses a chaste kiss against his lips. “As are you,” he murmurs.

Anakin seems to get an idea, and he beckons Obi-Wan back to the car. “I want to take you somewhere,” he says. Obi-Wan complies.

He drives the black Mustang off the road, out into the desert until there’s nothing around them but wide, open space. Anakin pulls him out of the passenger’s side, hands immediately all over Obi-Wan like he’s an excited teenager. Obi-Wan slows him down, and Anakin allows himself to be walked back until the backs of his knees hit the car and he’s bent over, splayed out on the hood. Obi-Wan takes in the sight of him like this, his hands sliding down Anakin’s body and thumbing at the muscle that juts out around his hipbones. The younger man shimmies out of his leather jacket and tosses it aside, hands reaching up to cup either side of Obi-Wan’s face. He brings Obi-Wan down for a kiss, pressed tight against him, thumbs trailing at the edge of Obi-Wan’s beard.

One of Anakin’s hands reaches down, cupping Obi-Wan through his pants; he intakes a sharp breath at the feeling of his cock being palmed, and lets Anakin pop the button on his jeans and slip a warm hand inside. 

He has a feeling he’ll be seeing more stars than there are in the expanse of desert sky above them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus, this chapter is obscenely long compared to the other two and I would split it up normally but I didn't want to cut off my favorite parts. a few extra notes on some of the things in the story - as I've previously said, I want to adapt certain parts of anakin's life on tatooine into a modern au. because he was able to speak the language(s) that some of the others spoke there (watto, sebulba), I decided that him being fluent in spanish would make the most sense for this particular setting. the spanish i've used here is mostly mexican slang and I'm sorry if it's not entirely correct, it's just what I know from having grown up in an area close to the mexican border where people speak a lot of spanglish.
> 
> that being said, I hope you all enjoy this chapter of the fic and i'm looking forward to the next one :-)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I felt like we can throw away the falseness of our past  
> and I know, too, it's been the hardest days for you  
> let's throw them out the window  
> that's what those lovers do
> 
> \--[down by the river](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cr4Zp-SxCaM), milky chance

Sunlight leaking through the windshield, a head pillowed on his stomach, and the warmth of another body pressed against his - Obi-Wan is met with multiple sensations as he slowly awakens. He rubs the sleep from his eyes with a heavy hand and looks down at Anakin; the younger man is sleeping peacefully, stretched out like a cat across the center console with legs crooked over the driver’s seat and most of his torso curled around Obi-Wan reclining in the passenger’s side. His hair almost looks gold, light dappling the long waves strewn about his sleeping face. Obi-Wan lets a hand drift down. He brushes strands from Anakin’s closed eyes, fingers lingering on the curve of his tanned cheekbones. His hand moves down, the pad of his thumb circling lightly over a dark, bruised bitemark mottling the juncture where Anakin’s neck and shoulder meet. Several more pepper the skin near it. They match the ones on Obi-Wan’s own neck and torso. 

Memories of last night flood back to him; memories of headlights piercing the dark and tires screeching and pulling across the finish line, victorious. Memories of them alone in the middle of the desert, nothing around for miles and Anakin’s back arching off the black lacquered hood of the Mustang, fevered kissing and sweat mixing with come and _Anakin_. Obi-Wan’s lips curl upward into a soft smile at the memories. It was a good night.

Anakin wakes slowly, with a cavernous yawn and a tired smile at the man he’s curled around. He burrows his forehead further into Obi-Wan’s stomach and lets out a sleepy groan of _five more minutes_. Obi-Wan doesn’t give in to the request. He stretches his own body out, jostling Anakin in the process until the younger man sits up ruefully. 

“‘Morning,” Anakin mumbles. He yawns once more, wide and loud as a lion. 

“He awakens,” Obi-Wan replied amusedly. Anakin curls a hand behind the older man’s neck, leaning up to press their lips together in a quick, chaste kiss. 

“Definitely slept well after last night,” the younger man says. His teeth flash at Obi-Wan in a sly grin. “And I wouldn’t be opposed to making it a _good_ morning.” Anakin’s hand palms the front of Obi-Wan’s half-open jeans pointedly. 

Obi-Wan lets out an undignified snort of laughter and shakes his head. He edges Anakin’s hand away from his crotch before his body reacts. “Unfortunately,” he replies, back cracking as he arches the sleep from it, “I still need a bit of time to recover. I _am_ , as you so love to remind me, an ‘old man,’ after all. Sleeping in a car all night has not done much for my body.”

Anakin nods. Obi-Wan can see the small pout on his face.

“But, maybe.. later today,” he offers tentatively. “In a proper bed.”

The pout turns into an anticipatory grin.

\- - - 

Anakin owns a whopping _one_ frying pan. Obi-Wan takes it out of the cabinet it’s sat unused in for what seems like a millennia, judging by the sheen of dust that has collected on the metal. He turns on the kitchen faucet to give it a good wash and hears Anakin yelp in shock from the bathroom as the hot water is momentarily diverted from his shower and, no doubt, replaced with something of a more freezing temperature. Obi-Wan chuckles to himself at the noise.

He puts the pan on the old and flickering gas stove, takes several eggs and cracks them into it and listens to the satisfying sizzle they make when they hit the hot surface of the pan. Obi-Wan idly pokes at them with a spatula, watching the yolks and white slowly harden into something more appetizing. He picks up the small jar of Medaglia D’oro instant espresso he had bought and puts it in a pot of water he’s set to boil on the stove; it isn’t the best coffee he’s ever made, but with what the little grocery store had to offer, he supposes it will be better than whatever sludge Anakin drinks every morning. 

After several days subsisting on Anakin’s rather select breakfast items in his pantry that consisted mostly of Captain Crunch and some brand of oatmeal meant for children that Anakin was rather passionate about (“The eggs hatch into little dinosaur sprinkles, Obi-Wan. Just watch.”), he’d decided to take matters into his own hands. He’s just about done plating the meal - eggs over medium, wheat toast, a few sausage links and some avocado he had stumbled upon at the store - when Anakin emerges from the bathroom, sweatpants barely holding onto his hips and a towel wrapped around his shoulders. He has a pair of scissors in one hand and a small mirror in the other.

“Haircut day,” Anakin says matter-of-factly in response to the quizzical brow raise Obi-Wan gives him.

“You cut your own hair?” Obi-Wan asks. “No wonder it looks the way it does.”

“Hey! My hair is perfectly fine. I’ve done this since I was a kid,” Anakin grouses. 

“It makes you look like a wet dog when you get out of the shower,” Obi-Wan replies, chuckling. “And it’s completely uneven in the back.” He steps to Anakin and takes the scissors in his own hand, the other settled on the younger man’s shoulder to sit him down in one of the kitchen table’s chairs. “Here. Let me.”

“You’d better not mess it up.”

“There isn’t much more I _can_ mess up, beyond what you’ve already done to it,” Obi-Wan replies dryly. Anakin jostles him, throwing a playful elbow that the older man easily dodges. Their laughs echo around the house.

He hands Anakin a plate and a mug filled with steaming espresso. The younger man settles it in his lap and eagerly scarfs down the food. Obi-Wan smiles softly and runs a hand through Anakin’s damp hair, combing tangles from the waves and marvelling at its softness. Two fingers catch a decent-sized gathering of strands and he moves them down until about a half-inch is left sticking out from the bottom, bringing the scissors up to snip at the ends. His fingers brush against the back of Anakin’s neck. The skin there is warm, smooth. He feels Anakin shiver under his touch, leaning back into it. 

“Hey, buddy,” Anakin murmurs. Artoo pads into the kitchen, looks up at Obi-Wan with a pleasant _mrow_ of greeting, and threads through Anakin’s legs. His purr is loud, entire body seeming to vibrate with the noise as he bumps his head affectionately against Anakin’s shins and, in turn, Obi-Wan’s. 

“Want some food?” Anakin asks the cat. Artoo’s tail waves lazily. His only reply is continued purring. “Here,” Anakin says, cutting a small sliver of sausage and handing it to Obi-Wan. “He’ll love you forever if you feed him.”

“Well, I suppose it’s best I get on his good side, then,” Obi-Wan replies. He squats down, rolling the bit of sausage into his palm and holding it out. Artoo doesn’t hesitate to grab it right out of his hand and eat it with a speed only rivaled by his owner’s. Obi-Wan scritches the bottom of Artoo’s chin fondly. “He’s a very contented cat.”

“He has an attitude if you spend enough time around him,” Anakin says.

Obi-Wan stands up and resumes his task of hair-cutting, scissors once more in hand. “It makes me miss my own pet, being around him,” he murmurs wistfully.

Anakin’s head turns and he glances at Obi-Wan from the corner of an eye. “You have a pet? You don’t strike me as a pet person,” he replies. He grins. “I can definitely see you as the kind of guy who complains about animal fur and owns a lint roller.”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. “I have a dog, as a matter of fact. A Jack Russell Terrier. His name is Cody.”

“Cody,” Anakin echoes. He slips Artoo a slice of egg from his plate. “Nice name. We used to have a dog. Rex. Mom ended up selling him when we needed money to pay lease rent on the old garage in town.”

“You lived in town?” Obi-Wan asks. He snips another strand, slowly evening out the mess that is Anakin’s hair.

“No. We just had a garage there, right where Ramona’s Gas is now; Mom was a mechanic, and I’d help her out.” Anakin’s words are tinged with sadness. Longing. “There’s not a lot of business out here, but she was already too far in debt to Watto to leave. It just got too expensive, paying for gas to drive out there every day, and she was sick of borrowing money; so, we built the garage together and she opened up shop here.”

“If I may ask,” Obi-Wan ventures, “how much do you still owe this man? Will the money you won last night help much?”

“Somewhere around sixty thousand,” Anakin says. Obi-Wan winces; it’s a very large sum for someone who is making a very small amount of money. “He lets me pay it off in increments every other month, but I’ve barely been scraping by, lately.”

Obi-Wan shortens a few more strands. Content with the job he’s done, he sets the scissors aside and runs his hands through Anakin’s hair. It looks much better than it had. And far less raggedy. “The six thousand you won last night will make a.. dent in that sum, I suppose,” he muses.

Anakin shrugs. “A small one, sure.” He shakes his hair out, bends over, and helps Obi-Wan sweep the floor and clean the immediate vicinity. 

“Sometimes,” he says after a few moments have flown by, “I wish I could disappear.”

He’s staring out the kitchen window, thumbs slung carelessly in the waistband of his sweatpants. The sun illuminates his face. It’s an expression Obi-Wan has seen before; that of a man not yet beaten or broken, but on his way there. 

Obi-Wan’s voice is low, barely a murmur, when he replies. “What if you could?”

“I’m tired of ‘what ifs’,” Anakin replies. He takes his plate, hops up onto the counter with it and continues to eat, legs dangling. He bites a piece of toast in half, a sour look on his face. Obi-Wan shakes his head, walks to the counter and places a hand on either side of Anakin’s hips. He musters his best serious expression, hoping his suggestion won’t be blown off.

“Suppose it weren’t a ‘what if,’ then. Suppose I actually _can_ make you disappear, assuming you’re willing to leave this town behind.” Somehow, Obi-Wan thinks _anyone_ would be willing to put this shithole town in their rearview.

Another bite of toast. “I’d say you’re off your rocker, old man,” Anakin replies, mumbling around the food in his mouth.

“Not quite,” Obi-Wan replies. Anakin’s gaze sharpens, interested. He raises a brow, urging Obi-Wan to elaborate. “‘Spy or something,’ remember?”

“That was a joke.”

“Perhaps. To some extent,” he says. Obi-Wan chews his bottom lip in thought, a hand raised to stroke his beard. “I said my job is multinational negotiations, and it is. I work with a private intelligence agency. We are not official - nothing like the CIA or MI6. But, we practice espionage all the same. Governments, militaries, and certain companies outsource work to us; we get a very wide range of jobs. One thing we are quite proficient at, however, is making people disappear.”

Anakin has a piece of toast dangling from his fingers. His mouth is hanging open in disbelief at Obi-Wan’s statement. “You’re shitting me.”

“I am most certainly not, ah - _shitting_ you, Anakin.”

“I can’t believe you’re a spy. God, this is like - like _James Bond_ is staying in my house, or something!”

“I can assure you that the work I do is a far cry from what Bond does. It is fun, though.” Obi-Wan smiles. 

Anakin deposits his plate beside himself and puts his hands on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, looking down at the older man. “What do you mean by making me disappear, though? How would it happen?”

“Something similar to witness protection, though far less intense. And, I believe the agency could use someone like you; smart, resourceful, good with your hands.”

Anakin winks at the last one. Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, though the grin on his lips belies his true feelings. “I meant in matters of mechanic work. Get your mind out of the gutter, Anakin.”

“You can do it, though? Get me out of here?”

“If you are willing to leave your home behind, yes.”

Anakin glances around the house, the ghost of a frown tugging at his mouth. He heaves a sigh. Nostalgic. “It might be time to move on. I can bring Artoo, right?”

“Of course,” Obi-Wan replies.

Anakin plants a hand on either side of Obi-Wan’s face, leaning down to press his lips to the older man’s happily.

\- - - 

The roar of engines running as they pull up to the yard is what tips Obi-Wan off; be it a hunch, some premonition, he simply knows that something is about to happen. He peers through the small window that faces the garage, where Anakin has been out working on the car for several hours.

Most of the cars are vaguely familiar to Obi-Wan. He recalls seeing some of them in the parking lot at the store the other day - some of the lowriders. A Camaro. There’s one that sticks out, fills him with a sense of dread. Sebulba’s Mastretta. The man in question steps out of his car with a clear agenda written all over his face. He flicks a cigarette into the dirt carelessly, scuffs a boot on the ground. Just as he calls out, angrily, “Skywalker!” Obi-Wan catches sight of the gun shoved into his back pocket. 

Obi-Wan moves quickly, darting to the guest room and digging through his duffel bags until he finds it. He unlatches the case and removes his glock. The motions go by quickly, his fingers flying - eject the magazine, load the bullets in, lock the magazine. He keeps the safety clipped on and screws a silencer onto the barrel, just for good measure. Obi-Wan slips it into the waistband of his pants, pulling his shirt down to cover it and quickly makes for the back door of the garage, where he knows he won’t be seen entering.

He crouches behind two motorcycles that are parked next to each other, watching the scene with careful eyes.

“I’ve come for my money, Skywalker,” Sebulba spits. He has his group of lackeys around him, each somehow more menacing than the last as they all stare Anakin down.

“The money is mine. I won, you lost. Fair’s fair.”

Sebulba growls. “There was nothing _fair_ about that shit you pulled at the finish line.”

“Yeah? You did the same thing to me last year. I didn’t roll up to your place and demand anything from you afterward, did I?”

“‘Cause you’re a pussy,” one of the men behind Sebulba cackles. The others join in, laughing in Anakin’s face. Obi-Wan purses his lips.

“I don’t want to start any trouble, but I’ll finish it if I have to,” Anakin replies. Obi-Wan can see him tapping a torque wrench against his palm menacingly. “You aren’t getting the money.”

“Fuck this,” Sebulba says exasperatedly, words punctuated by an eyeroll. He whips the gun from his back pocket, pointing it at Anakin. Obi-Wan can see the younger man visibly tense. Scared. He brings his own gun to eye-level, aiming it at Sebulba’s leg - _shoot to injure, never to kill_ , he repeated the agency’s mantra in his mind. “Give me the cash, _vato_.”

Anakin, too hotheaded to negotiate it out, responds by delivering a swift and hard kick to Sebulba’s kneecap. The man doubles over for a moment and Anakin raises the wrench to beat him with it. Sebulba flounders, one hand on his knee, the other still pointing the gun at Anakin. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he says viciously. Two of his men move to grab Anakin, who lashes against them.

Sebulba aims once more, at point-blank range.

Obi-Wan clicks the safety off and pulls back on the top of the barrel, loading a bullet.

Sebulba’s finger slides down toward the trigger.

A shot pierces the air. Explosive. Loud.

A cry.

Another shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all of the kudos and reviews! they really keep my fire going. also, dog anon - I hope I was able to fulfill your headcanon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When I was a child, I'd sit for hours  
> Staring into open flame  
> Something in it had a power,  
> Could barely tear my eyes away  
> \-- [arsonist's lullabye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yEtkIRlz7Vw), hozier

Everything happens in an instant. To Obi-Wan, it feels like a lifetime flying by in slow motion. His eyes track every second of it.

The two men holding Anakin back tighten their grips, muscles straining to contain the man as Sebulba’s gun goes off. The bullet lodges itself in his left shoulder, blood blossoming from the wound like a carnation, soaking Anakin’s shirt. He falters, drops the torque wrench, legs giving out beneath him at the sudden pain, eyes clenched shut as he cries out. The men viciously wrench his arms up, keeping his body dangling just above the sun-baked dirt.

Within less than a second, Obi-Wan shoots; his aim is precise, years of training guiding the bullet exactly where he wills it - straight to Sebulba’s bruised kneecap. There’s a loud crack as the bone splits, obliterated into mere shards by the shot. Sebulba’s cry matches Anakin’s. He goes down, entire body convulsing, in pain. Obi-Wan presses his lips in a thin line, not fond of the sight of either man in pain.

The ensuing moments are chaotic.

The men holding Anakin drop him, rushing to Sebulba’s side. One of the man’s lackeys come at Obi-Wan with brute force, grappling with him in an attempt to take his firearm. Obi-Wan dispatches him with a swift and efficient kick to the groin. Another comes at him angrily and Obi-Wan meets him blow-for-blow, cutting off the man’s will to fight by curling his fingers and shoving the heel of his palm upward at his nose. Obi-Wan is met with the sound of the man’s nose crunching, blood streaming out as he backpedals in pain. Too focused on fighting those that have been coming at him, Obi-Wan sees a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye; Sebulba, launching himself on one leg at Anakin, white-knuckling a butterfly knife in one hand. 

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan yells, watching the younger man struggle to get up and away. He rushes over, but he’s too late; Anakin moves enough that Sebulba fails to stab his neck with the blade, too far away. Instead, he jams it into Anakin’s right wrist, shoving the blade to the hilt into Anakin’s arm with all of the force left in his body. 

Obi-Wan sees red; he falls to his knees in the dirt next to Sebulba and puts him in a sleeper hold. The remaining members of Sebulba’s group draw their own weapons, tentative. Obi-Wan can see it on their faces; they don’t have a desire to be hurt, but they have an unspoken loyalty to their leader that they feel warrants some form of putting up a fight.

“Go home,” Obi-Wan growls, voice guttural. He does his best to look menacing, tightening his grip on Sebulba’s now unconscious form. His eyes flicker over to Anakin, writhing in pain. “I don’t want to snap his neck, but I will. Please - take him and leave us. This isn’t your fight.”

They mutter amongst themselves, and one approaches Obi-Wan, finger ghosting over the trigger of his Glock protectively. Obi-Wan lets him take Sebulba’s sleeping body, stepping back and watching the men load their leader and injured friends into vehicles. One of them flicks his lit cigarette into the garage, disgust written all over his face at the turn of events.

\- - - 

“Do you have a first aid kit?” Obi-Wan asks. He does his best to sound calm - the exact opposite of how he currently feels inside.

“Cabinet to the right of the sink, in the back,” Anakin grates out. He’s laid on top of the kitchen table (after a good deal of insistence that, no, don’t put him on the couch, it was his mom’s, he doesn’t want it to be stained with blood), arm clutched to his chest, a pillow propped under his head. His hair is plastered to his forehead and neck with sweat and his whole body heaves with the quick rise and fall of his short breaths. 

Obi-Wan digs through the cabinet in question, shoving aside bottles of Lexapro and Ibuprofen and some bubble gum-flavored cough medicine that’s definitely intended for children and not a grown man of Anakin’s size. He breathes a sigh of relief when his fingers wrap around a bottle that doesn’t look like it was manufactured in this century, a few capsules of Percocet rattling around in it. He grabs the bottle and the first aid kit and sets them down on the table next to Anakin.

“Take this,” he says, holding out one of the pills in the palm of his hand. Anakin eyes it.

“You trying to roofie me, old man?”

“Very funny, Anakin,” Obi-Wan replies dryly. “It will, hopefully, take the edge off the pain.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Anakin replies, smiling weakly; when his eyes drift over to the butterfly knife still lodged messily in his wrist, all traces of humor leak out of his face.

The first aid kit is extremely basic; Obi-Wan doubts it was put together in anticipation of treating stab wounds and bullet holes. He grabs the scissors and cuts Anakin’s ruined shirt off him, taking a long strip and tying it around his upper forearm to act as a tourniquet. Obi-Wan rolls up his shirtsleeves and tugs on the pair of latex gloves that he finds in the kit. He rips open several of the small, square alcohol swabs, cleaning blood off the area around the knife. 

“How does it feel?” Obi-Wan asks.

Anakin meets his eyes, brows knit in concern. “I can’t feel anything.”

“That can be normal. The tourniquet cuts off blood flow to the area; it is just doing its job.”

The younger man nods. Obi-Wan lightly grips the protruding handle of the knife, other hand on Anakin’s wrist to steady it. “Ready?” he asks. “I am going to pull the knife out on the count of three.”

“Now or never,” Anakin murmurs dully.

“One. Two.”

Obi-Wan slides it out before he reaches ‘three.’ Blood spurts from his forearm, welling up out of the stab wound. Obi-Wan quickly puts a towel on it, applying pressure to staunch the bloodflow.

He tells Anakin to keep pressing down on it and prepares a needle and thread. Anakin is surprisingly mellow during the entire ordeal, silent as the area is stitched up and heavily bandaged and wrapped in gauze. Obi-Wan turns his attention next to the bullet wound; the blood is crusted on his shoulder, but the entrance is clean. He grabs a pair of tweezers and holds a flashlight between his teeth, working the little bit of metal out of Anakin’s shoulder, cleaning the area, and stitching it up. 

The sun is low in the sky, casting its last light on the desert, by the time Obi-Wan finishes. He wipes away the sweat that dots his brow and runs a hand through the bristles of his beard, tossing his blood-covered gloves in the trashcan and putting away all of the medical supplies. Anakin lies on the table, waggling the fingers of his right hand.

“I can’t feel anything,” Anakin murmurs. 

“It could be the shock of it all, or the medication,” Obi-Wan offers, slumping into a kitchen chair beside Anakin.

“No, I mean..,” he trails off, chewing on his bottom lip. “I can’t feel any pain. I can’t feel my arm, or my hand, or my fingers. I can’t feel _anything_ , Obi-Wan.”

“Anakin…” Obi-Wan murmurs. He brings a hand to the younger man’s long curls, threading his fingers through his hair comfortingly. Anakin leans into his touch, but his eyes are wild with fear. “It’s possible the knife severed nerve endings in your arm.”

Anakin curls the fingers of his good arm into a fist and pounds the table. The sound echoes around the house. “God damn it,” he whispers bitterly, voice shaking. 

Obi-Wan brushes away a warm tear, leaving nothing more than a shining trail on Anakin’s cheek. 

The sound of crackling and the distinct smell of smoke bring them back to the present. Obi-Wan looks out the kitchen window toward the garage, where orange flames have begun to lick their way up wooden sides of the structure and are slowly encroaching upon the house.

_The cigarette,_ he thinks, and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

“How could I be so stupid?” Obi-Wan murmurs to himself. 

“What is it?” Anakin asks, voice rising in panic.

“One of the men flicked a cigarette into the garage. It must have lit something on fire. That garage is a hazard, Anakin; the amount of gasoline canisters and oil bottles and WD-40 you had shelved next to each other…”

“My garage!” Anakin yelps hoarsely, stumbling off the table. Obi-Wan tries to gently hold him back, telling him that he is in no state to be straining his body like this, but he persists. Obi-Wan lets him go, following Anakin as the younger man runs outside.

The garage is in flames. Shelves that had just been there a mere hour ago fall to pieces in the face of the fire. The old radio that had faithfully played so many classic hits sits on its stool, plastic melted into black sludge. Flames lick around motorcycles and the old tow truck. Obi-Wan stares at his nearly-fixed BMW, mind blank as fire consumes it. 

Anakin starts toward the blazing inferno. Obi-Wan cries out, rushes to stop him, but he stumbles and falls to his knees before he gets close enough to endanger himself. 

“My garage,” Anakin says, voice strained. “ _My garage, my garage, my garage_.” He repeats the two words, fingers helplessly digging ruts in the dirt, smoke stinging his eyes and filling his lungs and the sight of his life burning before him casting a flickering orange light on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: apologies for any medical discrepancies there may be - I'll admit, I haven't (yet) been in a gun and/or knife fight

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to follow [my tumblr](http://kenway.tumblr.com) and send me obikin headcanons because I'm in desperate need of someone to talk with about them as I write this fic (RIP)


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